Holding the Title
by Minutia R
Summary: Cat becomes Chrestomanci, briefly.


"I need to know that you can do it," said Chrestomanci.

Cat nodded and looked at his feet, feeling fairly certain that he _couldn't_. The sounds of a game of Klartchball drifted up from the grounds below, and Cat wished he were there—or anywhere—instead of here.

"It isn't that difficult," Chrestomanci went on. "I did it for the first time when I was twelve, and barely knew what it meant." His usually cool voice had gone warm with reminiscence. Cat looked up, trying to imagine Chrestomanci being twelve. "It felt _marvelous_."

"Oh," said Cat. It didn't sound marvelous. It sounded terrifying.

"Now, it will only be for a minute or two this time, but one never knows . . . you _do_ know how to set up the spells, if you should get called away?" said Chrestomanci.

"Yes, sir," said Cat. _That_ was easy. Location spell, tracker, status. "But you don't really need them, do you? _I_ don't need them to find _you_."

"Finding things is your talent, Cat, not mine," said Chrestomanci.

"Oh," said Cat again. He uncurled a bit with pleasure. He couldn't help it; a snowman would go pink if Chrestomanci complimented it. "I'd better have them, then, hadn't I."

"Much better," Chrestomanci agreed.

"What _is_ your talent?" Cat asked before he could stop himself.

"What do you think?" said Chrestomanci. His eyes were bright. It wasn't a test; he was really curious to hear what Cat would say.

"Carrying on wherever you go," said Cat. "And making people listen to you." And then, realizing what he had just said, "Oh, help!"

"What is it?" said Chrestomanci.

"I thought that went along with being Chrestomanci," said Cat. "But it doesn't, does it. It's _you_. How am I _ever_ going to manage?"

"In your own way," said Chrestomanci. "I thought you knew that."

"I did, I suppose. I do," said Cat. It didn't seem quite so terrifying now. "All right. I'm ready."

"No, you aren't, or that would have done it. It's basic Performative Speech," said Chrestomanci, who had probably been using Performative Speech since he could talk. Assuming that the world would rearrange itself according to his word didn't come nearly so naturally to Cat.

Cat hated responsibility; that was the trouble. And as far as he could see, being Chrestomanci was nothing but responsibility. Responsibility, and people expecting things from you, and bound to be disappointed when everything went wrong.

The silence of Cat's thoughts was interrupted by a piteous wailing from below that Joe and Marianne were _cheating_ and it wasn't _fair_. Klartch was such a baby still, sometimes. Cat was suddenly reminded of when Klartch _was_ a baby, and Cat had fed him at all hours of the night. There was responsibility, if you liked. But no one had asked Cat to do it, and he hadn't hated it. He hadn't liked it, either; he had just done it, because he could see it needed doing.

It had been the same with Tonino. He had balked when everyone expected him to look after Tonino. But when he couldn't remember that everyone expected it, and only knew that Tonino needed looking after, it had been as natural as breathing.

"It isn't just the misuse of magic. It's being there to help, when you're needed badly enough. Somebody has to do it, and I'm afraid there won't be much warning when it isn't me anymore," Chrestomanci was saying. Cat could believe that. He didn't think Chrestomanci was likely to end the way Gabriel de Witt had, in bed, his lives slipping away one by one. "_Will_ you do it, Cat?"

Cat started to speak, and stopped, and tried to remember what he knew about Performative Speech. It wasn't expecting the world to rearrange itself, really. It was telling the world—or a particular part of the world, in this case, himself—the way it _was_. And there was no getting around the fact that, if being Chrestomanci meant that people came to you with their problems and you helped them, that was what Cat already did. "Yes," he said, and felt something catch.

But the next second he decided it hadn't worked again. He wasn't ten feet tall, or distant and frightening; he was just himself, Cat Chant, and he still had to look up at—at the person across the room. "Sir," he said, "what do I _call_ you?"

"I beg your pardon?" said the man.

"I can't even _think_ of you as Chrestomanci," said Cat. The four syllables, spoken aloud, set up a strange resonance in Cat's chest. They meant himself, and no one else. He knew without having to test it that he would come if he were called. "But I've never called you anything else, in my head. I look at you and nothing _attaches_." Cat tried to keep the high note out of his voice. It was a _silly_ thing to panic about. But feeling this way about one of the people closest to him in the world was horrible.

"Well," said the man. "Now you have a taste of what it's like to be me."

He meant, Cat supposed, the way he could never remember people's names. It had taken Cat the longest time to understand that this was a real difficulty for him, and not just something he did to remind you how small you were. "You never forget the names of your family," he said.

"No," said the man. "I don't. Call me Christopher, then. _I_ always called my guardian Gabriel."

"Oh," said Cat, "_thank you_." He couldn't quite bring himself to use Christopher's first name aloud, but that was not what he had principally wanted it for. It was such a relief to know him again. Or was again the right word? This was different. It was easy to imagine _Christopher_ at twelve years old, holding the title of Chrestomanci for the first time, utterly thrilled to be able to boss everyone in the castle around.

"It _is_ a bit strange, after all this time," said Christopher. He smiled dreamily. "Do you know, I'm feeling the most wicked urge to run off to Series Five for about a year. I'm always promising Millie."

Now _here_ was an entirely sensible reason to panic. Oddly enough, Cat didn't. "All right," he said. "There aren't any outstanding crises I should know about, are there? I can get Tom to give me your regular schedule. Can I send him to committee meetings and so on, too? I'm not sure what they'd make of me."

"Send Bernard," said Christopher absently. He was staring, in his vaguest wandering way, somewhere above Cat's head. "He's an enchanter, and he's not likely to set off anyone's prejudices the moment he opens his mouth—unlike Jason. And as long as you can get him off stocks and shares, he's capable of being civil for an hour at a time—unlike Michael. Tom you'll want to keep by you."

If Cat had meant to call Christopher's bluff, it didn't seem to be working. And he _had_ meant to—or he thought he had. But he was beginning to see how it could be done. It was fascinating, thrilling and a little sickening at once, like a fast gallop over uncertain ground, or a jump you were not sure you were going to make. "Millie already does all the parties—but she'll be coming with you, won't she? I'll ask Irene Yeldham if she'd be willing to take over as hostess. Or else, in an emergency, maybe Tonino's mother would step in? She knows the castle, and she's supposed to be very elegant."

"She is," said Christopher. "Supremely. She won't leave her home for long, though."

"Emergencies," said Cat. "And I can get Janet and Julia to—are you going to be taking Julia and Roger along, or do they work for me now?"

Christopher's eyes narrowed. It might have been anger, but Cat was pretty sure it was laughter. "They don't _work_ for anyone. You'll have to ask them."

"Oh," said Cat. "Well, I'm sure they'll be willing to oblige me. Or I could bribe them. I _know_ Roger's been wanting permission to import machine parts from 12B."

Christopher was laughing openly now. "_You_ are a little megalomaniac," he said. "And I would like my title back now, please."

"The Related Worlds will still be here when you get back, sir, I promise. Or," Cat pulled up a little guiltily, "have I been going on like an evil enchanter?"

"Not at all," said Christopher. "I just remembered how much fun I would be missing. The title, Cat. I can't take it back unless you _give_ it to me."

Cat nearly went mulish again. He did _not_ have to give the title back, whatever Christopher said. As soon as he realized that this was actually true, his reluctance vanished. "Will you be Chrestomanci again, Christopher?" said Cat.

"Yes," said Chrestomanci. "Thank you."

"Thank you for taking it back, sir," said Cat. "I could have done it, I think. But I'm not really ready."

"I know," said Chrestomanci.

"Did you mean it?" said Cat. "About Series Five?"

"I was seriously contemplating it," said Chrestomanci. "For about thirty seconds."

"Oh," said Cat. And then, timidly, "Will Millie be very disappointed?"

"I will tell you a secret," said Chrestomanci, "if you promise not to tell anyone else."

"Of course," said Cat.

"I've been asking Millie to run off to Series Five with me for _years_," said Chrestomanci. "She always says living on an island with no one but me would drive her mad."

Cat giggled. "How many years?" he said.

"Twenty-five? Twenty-six? When one gets to my age one loses track," said Chrestomanci. "But one of these days—" and he vanished. Cat shortly heard Tom's hurrying footsteps in the corridor, and then Tom himself burst into the study.

"Where's he gone?" said Tom.

Cat stood still, and closed his eyes, and looked. He could feel faint traces of Chrestomanci-ness moving through the worlds. The scent was more complex than it used to be, as if he could smell undertones of Christopher-ness as well. "Series Three," said Cat. "G, I think. He's being gently sarcastic, but there's real annoyance underneath. I expect he'll be back by tomorrow morning."

"Oh," said Tom. "But the Minister's been getting very impatient about—"

Cat grinned. "Not my problem," he said, and ran downstairs to play Klartchball.


End file.
